Habits of buzzards

With the rain - three days of it - I have had to walk close to the city after a lift from the side of a flooded A-road. I had been examining the beech trees, an outgrown hedge, tangled with itsself and the beech mast a carpet cloth thrown down the hill in ruffles. Its colour greened from leaflings and reproductive parts torn from the tree by hail, then brown and then black like grit hemming the roadside puddles.

A car stopped and I got in.

It brought me to a world of dyked farms enclosed by suburbs, petrol stations and arterial roads and scrub copses that turn out to be railway  embankments. Rich picking for wild camping and I am now the proud owner of a tarpaulin.

So there was a logic to this.

The tarpaulin came from a builder's lorry I suppose; it carries a logo but I stay dry.

And the buzzard that hunts this busy road next to my camp perches uncomfortably on thin sapling tops and telegraph wires admired by the pigeons.